


Hell Night

by Caffiend



Category: American Actor RPF, Chris Evans Fandom, Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Breeding Kink, Chris Evans Fandom - Freeform, Dystopian Future, F/M, Haunted Houses, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Salem Witch Trials, Supernatural Elements, Vaginal Sex, Violence, curtis everett fandom - Freeform, curtis takes a shower, gladiator style fighting, idiot front-enders, kronole, snowpiercer fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiend/pseuds/Caffiend
Summary: In which you have snagged the last, coveted ticket to the charity haunted house, where Chris Evans is reprising his role as Curtis Everett from Snowpiercer. And you're going to be there, come hell or high water. But the house has other ideas...Written for my beautiful JTargaryen18's Haunted House 2020 Challenge.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor)/You, Curtis Everett/Reader, curtis everett/you
Comments: 141
Kudos: 116





	1. The Last Ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you snag the last ticket to an ultra-exclusive fundraiser for the notorious haunted houses in Salem, Massachusetts. It's worth every spare dollar you could scrape together to see Chris Evans reprise his role as the tortured and powerful Curtis Everett from Snowpiercer. But the house - and Curtis - have other plans for you.

“Really?” you groaned to yourself, “C’mon, c’mon!” The Uber taking you to the charity event was rolling sedately down the poorly-maintained road and you were dying. 

“Can’t go any faster,” the driver rested his elbow on his opened window, smiling at you placidly in the rearview mirror. “I ain’t ripping my bumper off.”

Your lips pressed together in the most unwilling, polite smile you were capable of. Sure, you got it. Of course. However, _if he didn’t move his fucking ass the haunted house would be over with before you fucking got there!_ God- _damnit_ you’d busted your ass to get tickets to this thing and in the end, spent all your available cash (for the next eighteen months or so) for a single, scalped ticket. Screw it, you’d go alone, but you were not missing Chris Evans. And certainly not reprising his role as Curtis Everett in Snowpiercer! Besides, it was for charity. 

But the trip to Salem from Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston was excruciatingly long - especially when you knew the last tour through the haunted mansion would be at midnight. You’d thought you would have plenty of time to get off your shift, go home and shower, actually apply some mascara and lipstick and look vaguely human for the event. But as the newest OB/GYN on the day shift, you were the one who stayed to make sure Mrs. Adelle Finnegan delivered those twins safely, even if her personal doctor was on staff, could have stayed, but left you there with the poor woman in heavy labor, screaming miserably while her terrified husband wrung his hands, and-

Taking a deep breath in and holding it for a moment, you closed your eyes. Zen. Be zen. You weren’t going to get another chance to “meet” Curtis Everett and you were going to enjoy this, damnit! The fundraiser was a spectacular one - several different A-list celebrities appearing as some of their most notable characters, interacting with those willing to pay an obscene amount of money to the charity, which kept the Joshua Ward House in Salem, Massachusetts in perfect condition to terrify visitors for years to come.

“So what’s this big fundraiser you’re going to?” Your driver was eyeing your wrinkled dress and cardigan.

“It’s not black tie or anything,” you said a little defensively, “but it’s the hottest event of the year, it sold out in twenty-seven minutes when they released the tickets. I had to get mine from a scalper. But I get to go through the Snowpiercer room with Curtis Everett!”

He frowned at you in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know that guy?”

“Oh, he’s a character,” you corrected, “he was played by Chris Evans in the movie.”

“Evans? Captain America? Why isn’t he doing an Avengers thing?” the driver shook his head, “Hell, I would have sold my car for a ticket to that!”

You unconsciously leaned forward, willing the car to move faster as you thought about it. “I don’t know … it is a little surprising. But I’m thrilled he’s Curtis Everett tonight.”

Your heart sank as the Uber pulled onto the cobblestone street, the massive bulk of the Joshua Ward House looming in front of you. But the entrance was empty, no eager line of people. “No no no!” you groaned, “Don’t be closed!” 

“Good luck!” the Uber driver called, before reversing and heading back down the road before you could even ask him to wait.

“They will be open,” you said fiercely, “I did not come all this way to-”

“Welcome.” With a little shriek, you spun around. A tall woman with the long black hair and heavy eye makeup of your classic goth was standing behind you, her demure smile showing just a bit of plastic fang. “Your timing is impressive, we were just about to lock the gate.”

“Oh, thank god,” you said, sagging against the wrought iron entrance. “I had to work late and had the slowest Uber in the- You know what? Never mind, sorry. Here’s my ticket!” Thrusting the glittering piece of cardstock at her, you breathed a sigh of relief as you walked through the gate, hearing the lock engage behind you.

Black-polished nails turned your ticket over. “Curtis Everett. You must be very adventurous.”

“There’s just … something about him,” you were following her up the steps and across the stately threshold, flickering with a watery orange hue from the ancient gas lights. “He’s amazing. Dark. Tortured.” Her shoulders shook just slightly with a silent chuckle. Your cheeks heated as you said, “I know. I sound like hardcore fangirl material, but…” 

Pleasantly ignoring you, your goth guide began her narrative. “The Joshua Ward House is thought to be the most haunted house in Salem. The mansion was built by Sheriff George Corwin, who was one of the most vicious and cruel persecutors during the Salem Witch Trials. His tortured victims still walk these halls.”

“Oh?” you answered politely, every cell in your body attuned toward getting to the room holding Curtis Everett.

“Mmmm,” she agreed, “One of the most terrible things still recounted about the sheriff is his supervision of the ‘pressing’ of Giles Corey, an 81-year-old man who was accused of being a witch. Mister Corey was dragged to court but refused to answer to guilty or innocent to his charges, condemning the town for their fear and madness.”

You shuddered, you knew what ‘pressing’ was. “So they tortured the poor man?”

“Oh, yes.” Your hostess sounded far too cheerful. “He was punished by being forced down on his back. They laid a plank across his body and piled heavier and heavier stones, trying to force him to confess. The old man suffocated as his ribs slowly compressed, crushing his chest. But they say he cursed Sheriff Corwin and the entire town with his dying breath. You’re lucky your room is not in the basement.” She smiled at you, and you really wished she hadn’t. “Many visitors have fainted there, saying they felt like they’d been choked.”

You ascended the narrow, steep staircase behind her. “It’s so quiet. Where is everyone?”

“In their rooms,” her kohl-lined eyes glanced at you over her shoulder. “We promised a completely immersive experience. No one will disturb you.” Opening a heavy door, your guide stepped aside. “Curtis is waiting for you.”

You heard the door shut, but you couldn’t move, jaw dropped as you looked around.

You were in the tail end of the Snowpiercer.

It was filthy, redolent with dozens of unwashed bodies and years of accumulated grime. You could even feel the rocking of the floor beneath you as the train traveled along the icy rails outside. 

“Wh- what the fuck just happened?” Turning in a shaky circle, you looked for your goth hostess - shit - _someone_ to explain how the hell this had happened. Taking a step back toward the door, you realized it was gone, nothing but grey metal with a thin sheen of frost.

“Who the hell are you? Did Wilford send you as a sacrifice?” A gigantically tall shadow separated from the rest, striding toward you. He gave a mirthless chuckle, “You must have really fucked up to get thrown back here.”

It was Curtis Everett. You knew every part of him, from the long, tattered coat to his ruthlessly sharp cheekbones, gaunt from fury and starvation. You were quite clear from watching the film multiple times that the man was huge, but in person he was terrifying. He towered over you, cast you into shadow. Broad shoulders, gloved fists clenched, and ocean colored eyes alight like the fires of hell.

“Answer me!”

You jumped, “L- look dude, this is seriously fucked up and I am not supposed to be here!” You were waving your hands wildly, backing up a bit. “This was for charity, I-” Your explanation ended in a squeal as he abruptly picked you up, hands hard on your arms as he lifted you so you were level, eye to eye.

Giving you a brisk shake that made your head feel like it was separated from your neck, he gritted out, “You’re not even dressed for back here, you idiot! You’re going to die in minutes if you don’t tell me what the fuck you were sent back for?”

You were completely terrified, check.

Confused as hell, check.

Uncomfortably distracted and a little aroused by the man lifting you like you weighed less than a paper clip, double check.

The heavy sliding doors blocking this car from the next slammed open and you could hear the muffled shrieks of people behind you, footsteps rapidly moving backward. But Curtis stayed planted where he was, dropping you back to the metal flooring as you yelped. Putting one long arm around your neck and shoulders, he pulled you back against him.

“Aw, thanks for saving us the trouble of breaking some tail-ender heads open to find you, Curtis.”

You knew that nasty, doughy face, the white-blond hair. It was Snowpiercer’s version of the KKK, Franco the Elder. 

“What do you want?” snarled Curtis.

“The party car wants entertainment. You made quite the impression last time, so they want you back.” Franco the Elder slapped his baton against his palm. “Get moving and everyone gets to live.” Curtis was putting you behind him, trying to make you invisible to the guards but the movement caught their attention. Chuckling, Franco the Scumbag Asshole nodded at you. “Bring the bitch.”

You caught only flashes, quick glimpses of the next few cars as you were hustled past. But they became cleaner as you moved through them, lighter. Well-dressed passengers stared at the two of you like you were circus animals. ‘Yeah, fuck them,’ you thought, ‘they’re the freak show, not us.’ You were scared stiff. Shivering uncontrollably from the bone-searing cold between the heated cars. Clutching the back of Curtis’s filthy coat. No fucking way were you letting go.

Stumbling into the next car, your spine stiffened. The loathsome front-enders were all dressed in their splashy party gear, over the top hair, lurid cosmetics and everyone was wearing elaborate animal masks. There were lions, tigers, and bears, _‘Oh my!’_ you thought wildly and giggled. But there were a multitude more that you didn’t recognize as any member of the animal kingdom. Ugly, snarling faces and misshapen features, twisted and cruel. Curtis had looked down at you when you giggled and pulled you abruptly to his side, arm tight and uncomfortable against your ribs. 

“You think this is funny?” he snapped. “Do you know what’s going to happen here?”

“Oh, believe me, I do not think this is funny!” you hissed back. “I’m scared shitless and I have no idea what the hell happened.” Your grip on his coat tightened. “Are they going to kill us?”

Curtis was staring down at you, his dark brows drawn together. You couldn’t tell if it was confusion or concern. A giggling crowd of party-goers jostled the two of you apart, but he pulled you back quickly. “Listen to me,” he said sharply, precisely. “This is the New Year’s celebration. The front-enders celebrate by making some of us fight to the death.”

Shaking your head, your eyes widened. “No … wait, are you serious? That’s so sick! They don’t feed you anything - how are you going to be strong enough to fight one of these assholes?”

Curtis was surprised, you could tell. “I’ve done it before, and I’m still alive.”

Looking down at your dress and high-heeled boots, you asked in a small voice, “Am I fighting, too?” With a yelp, you were yanked backward and against the uniformed chest of one of the guards.

“No,” Franco chuckled, “you’re the prize.”

You stood shuddering under the blast of the shower, the water hitting hard on your skin like a thousand needles. After you’d been torn away from Curtis, they’d dragged you into the “beauty car.” Ugh, a dozen heavily painted women staring at you, flapping their weird fake eyelashes like deranged moths. But their grip was surprisingly strong as they pulled you from the smirking guards, _‘I’ll wipe that smile off your face, asshole!’_ and yanked your clothes off, putting you in the shower.

“You even get a hot one,” a blonde with gigantic hair told you.

“Th- this is hot?” your teeth were chattering so hard you were worried you’d chipped one. Washing your hair as quickly as your shaking hands would allow, you were dizzy, going round and round with the same question - the only question that mattered - what the fuck was going on? Finally, you nodded absently. _‘Play along,’_ you thought. _‘Act like this is real and I’m not crazy. Act like it’s a really, really good immersive experience and at some point, I'll figure out whether I'm having a psychotic break or this is really ... fuck.'_ You were so screwed.

You stepped gratefully out of your watery torture and submitted to the harpies waxing everything below your neck. You were lotioned and pedicured, there was a manicure from a woman who kept making a tsk’ing sound that made you want to stab her, and more mascara in one application than you’d worn in your entire life. You didn’t say anything. What could you possibly say to these pigeons in lipstick? They were chattering about the festivities that night and how bitter they were that you were keeping them from the booze and Kronole.

“You’re mixing that shit with alcohol? That’s deadly.”

The chatter stilled and they all stared at you, you hadn’t realized you’d spoken out loud. 

“What are you talking about?” said the blonde, speaking slowly as if you were dimwitted. 

“Kronole,” you shifted in the hard hairdresser’s chair. “It’s a violent hallucinogen. You could get hurt, assaulted. You could hurt someone else.”

Their reaction was as if a dancing bear suddenly started spouting Shakespeare. They all laughed and patted you, fussing over your hair. But the blonde was still chattering to her friend as she tried to trim a snarl from your hair and the razor-sharp scissors slipped, leaving a vicious gash along her arm. 

Wailing in terror, she started flapping her arms, turning in one direction, then the other as if expecting someone to save her. But all the beauty car girls shrank back from the spray of blood.

“Shit, you’ve nicked your brachial artery. Hold still - LISTEN! Hold still!” You were up, hands firm on her arm and whipping a towel off the back of your chair to hold it against the spurting wound. Blondie was still screeching like a barn owl and you slapped her briskly across the face. It somehow managed to shut them all up. "I can help you," your Doctor Voice really was spectacular, honed after the shittiest, most exhausting residency ever. "You," pointing sternly at one of the more slightly intelligent-looking girls, "find me a needle and thread. Silk line if you can. Alcohol to sterilize it. GO!" you shouted as she jumped. With more stern instructions, you got the gaggle of beauticians to help you settle Blondie, and get you the necessary items. 

Pulling the cork off a bottle of what looked like Everclear with your teeth, you splashed it over the needle and thread, then handed it to the bleeding, wailing girl. "Drink this." She'd seized it from you and was gulping a good third of the bottle before you could wrestle it away from her. "You!" pointing at a trembling redhead, "Talk to her about the party tonight. What mask are you wearing?"

The girls finally got the idea and began chattering eagerly, peppering Blondie with questions and giggling together as you began making quick, neat stitches, a little impressed with how well your patient was handling the miserable home surgery. “Okay…” you tied off the last tiny stitch carefully. “You’ll want to see your doctor to get the stitches out in about ten days or so, and-” Her inelegant snort made you look up.

“Doctor?” Blondie scoffed, “Where would I see one of those?”

You looked up, surprised. “But you’re a front-ender, right? So you get all the goodies?”

The girls surrounding you burst into bitter laughter. “Oh, there’s so many levels, and-” the wounded girl was cut off by a pounding on the door.

“Is the bitch dressed up yet? The games are about to start and the Conductor wants to see her.”

In a flash, the beauticians flew around you in a storm of hairpins, lacy underwear, and hauled you into a long, slinky black dress that glittered and flashed as you moved in it. The sheer fabric showed the dusky hue of your nipples and you groaned. “Please don’t leave me in this! I may as well be nak-”

“Shhhh!” They fluttered up again, one pressing her long, red nails against your mouth. “That might happen, so shut up!” The door shook as the bored guard pounded on it again.

Blondie stared at you fearfully as she pulled long, white gloves up your bare arms. “Listen to me,” she whispered, “Curtis has won too many times for a tail-ender. They’re going to tear him apart tonight. In the meat car - the butchers - there should be only one but there’s more, and they’re going to knock the lights out so he’s blind but they have night vision.” Her lower lip trembled, the heavy layer of lipstick smearing on her teeth. “They’re going to serve him up for midnight supper.”

You forced down your nausea. “I thought only the tail-enders ate flesh when they’d been starved to death? It thought it stopped with the protein blocks, and-”

She looked at you incredulously. “It’s a delicacy. One the Elites have once a year. Like the fish.”

“Sweet Mother Mary,” you whispered.

“I don’t think you can do anything,” her hands were shaking, trying to haul the glove past your elbow. “But it’s all I’ve got to give you.”

Squeezing her hands, you tried to smile. “Thank you. It’ll … it’ll be okay, it will.”

Blondie and the others clustered together in a frightened little huddle as the door slammed open and two black-uniformed bastards grabbed you, hauling you back through the door.

“Stop dragging me!” you hissed, “Are you supposed to be marking up the merchandise?” The pretty brunet scowled at you, smoothing his perfectly trimmed goatee. 

“Shut up, bitch,” he growled.

You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Fuck, you _hated_ this guy. Every time you watched… “Franco the Younger,” you sneered, “aren’t you just the cutest, kitten? Does Wilford know you’re banging his second in command?” His face flushed a furious red and he raised his fist with a growl, ready to beat you to death.

“Stop!” His KKK Daddy grabbed Franco the Younger’s wrist. “Wait until after. Then…” His voice thickened at the thought of your torture, sounding almost sexual when he sighed.

The next car you were dragged into was massive - a double-decker series of stages and pits, music pulsing, and expensively-clad bodies writhing ecstatically. You squinted painfully through the flashing lights, and there on the highest platform stood Curtis. 

He was, shockingly, quite clean, his scarred skin unblemished by the dirt tattooed into him from years in the tail-end. His face was even more arresting without the grime to hide his smooth beard and strong jawline. His eyes blazed under dark brows as he searched the crowd, finally settling on you. He was only wearing pants and he was beautiful.

You stumbled a little as Franco the Super Douche shoved you forward, but you pulled up your long skirt and climbed the stairs to where Curtis was waiting. Even with the stupidly high heels they’d shoved on your feet, he looked down at you. “Hey,” you swallowed, “so what happens now?”

“Now?” the voice came from behind Curtis, hidden by his huge body for a moment before the man stepped around him, silk robe flapping. He was balding, cool blue eyes amused as he looked you over. “Now you give the savior of the tail-enders something to take into battle.”

 _‘Fucking Wilford,’_ you thought, nearly swamped with hate. You never thought you could knowingly take a life. Over a decade of training honed you into someone who could only save them. But this sick motherfucker? You wished you had one of your glinting, wickedly sharp scalpels. You would carve him like a honey-glazed ham. 

The monstrous “conductor” of this steel hellscape was looking you over, thoroughly, a tiny wrinkle adding to the ones on his forehead. “Now, why haven’t I had the pleasure of your acquaintance before now?” Chuckling as your teeth drew back in a snarl, he waved an indifferent hand. “No matter.” Looking out over the avid crowd, he shouted, “Let the First Night festivities begin!”

Glancing at the crowd in confusion, you watched them draw closer, surrounding the platform where you stood with Curtis. “What…” you bent your head to whisper in his ear, “what’re they waiting for?”

The giant standing in front of you cleared his throat. “They’re waiting for us to fuck.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. All the smut happens in chapter two, and I'm way out of my comfort zone. But I think you will be pleased. It'll be up tomorrow. Thanks as always for reading.


	2. Don't Look At Them. Look At Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you find out exactly what your part in the festivities is meant to be.
> 
> My submission for @jtargaryen18‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…  
> 18+ ONLY. Graphic depictions of sex. Not that any of us are displeased, since it involves Curtis. And you.

“They’re WHAT?” The shocked, high pitch of your voice carried and the people below you burst into mocking laughter. The whistles and taunts faded as you stared at Curtis, horrified. 

His eyes were polar blue. “What’s the matter? You’re too good to let a dirty tail-ender touch you?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the only one on this hell train that I want to have sex with! But not in front … I don’t want people to watch me have sex!” You’d grasped his arm without thinking, the hard muscle there grounding you. _“I_ don’t even want to watch me have sex! Please…” you drifted off. 

Curtis looked down at you, his square, strong features could have been carved in stone. “If I don’t play their games, they kill my people. The tail-enders. The ones no one gives a shit about because we’re just animals. We’re going to fuck. We’ll give them a show. And the kids in the back get to live.”

He knew you better than he should. You’d had the most fleeting contact really, but this beautiful son of a bitch knew exactly what he had to say. Nodding in a jerking sort of fashion, you said, “Wh- wh- wh-.” You stopped, took a breath. “Sorry, I st- stutter when I g- get nervous.”

His hands went behind you, unzipping the dress as you cringed. The audience cheered, the drunken shouts rising over the haze of smoke from cigarettes and joints. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” His deep voice was kind. Kinder than you probably deserved, a stranger popping into existence in the middle of his territory and he still tried to protect you. Instantly. Without knowing who you were or why you were there. Rough, calloused fingers rasped down the skin of your arms and back. “So smooth…” he mused. His thumbs went under the straps and pulled them down as you cringed. The bra fell away and the catcalls and whistles flowed over your jangled nerves like acid. “Ignore those fuckers.” His head was tilted, lips close to your ear. Nodding numbly, you gripped his shoulders as Curtis moved in to kiss you. The mocking cheers muffled just a bit, your skin felt hot and oddly prickly, nipples tightening as they brushed across his sculpted chest.

He pressed you against him, one hand sliding down to cup your ass, the other cradling the back of your head as his tongue slid over yours.

 _‘Cool,’_ you thought distantly, _‘they let him brush his teeth. Minty freshness…'_ Yelping as his fist suddenly gripped a chunk of your hair and jerked your head up, you said, “Dude! What the-” His teeth bit into your neck and you let out a shriek this time.

“Wilford’s watching,” Curtis hissed, your gaze darted over his shoulder to see the revolting bastard smoking idly, looking displeased. “He doesn’t want this to be good. He wants this to be degrading as shit. Just- try to go with it, okay?”

“Y- y- yeah, okay.” You were trying not to cry as he bit you again, then yanked down his pants, stepping out of them and brazenly, beautifully naked. The drunken voices rose to a roar. Flinching as he tore off your undies with one fist, you gripped his shoulders tighter.

“Hang on,” he murmured, then threw you on your back and just catching your head before it bounced off the stage floor. Roughly separating your thighs, Curtis climbed in between them. Two long fingers began circling your pussy and he nipped at your breast, turning it into a long, slow suck no one could see.

 _‘I must look fucking ridiculous…’_ you thought hazily, _‘lying here with these stupid opera gloves on and nothing else.’_

“Try to… I- just try to think about someone you love touching you,” Curtis whispered, his dexterous fingers trying to arouse you, make you wet. Based on the hard, hot thing you were feeling against your thigh, you were going to need all the slick you could manufacture in this shitty scenario. But his words made you terribly sad.

Making a show of pushing against his chest while softly stroking along his painfully protruding ribs, you admitted, “I don’t h- have anyone like that. Do you?”

Curtis lifted his head enough to look down at you. He looked genuinely puzzled, as if the idea of being soft enough to love someone had never occurred to him. Something bounced off the stage and shattered, and his expression hardened again. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

Yeah, but it did. You let out another shocked shriek as he put the broad head of his cock at your entrance and began pushing, making your thighs tighten trying to push him out. Curtis was choking you. Suffocating you with his cock which, as a medical professional really made no sense but you didn’t know how else to explain it. 

“God, you’re so hot inside…” he groaned, bracing his feet on the platform to push harder. Resting on his elbow to look down on you, he slid the other hand between you at an angle where the screaming front-enders couldn’t see, circling and scraping gently against your clitoris. “Relax, I don’t want to hurt you!”

Your forehead pressed against his wide shoulder as you panted, trying to loosen the lower half of your body, which had turned into concrete at some point. The springy curls at the base of his cock were rubbing against you in a really distracting way, and you could see the muscles of his perfect ass flex and tighten as he pushed higher. And with his long body covering you so completely, it was the first time since this left turn into What The Fuck Is Happening-ville that you’d felt warm. You felt your thighs loosen just a bit, and his cock surged up inside you, higher than you imagined one could go, circling and pushing as if trying to find more room. The din of the crowd faded for a moment and you closed your eyes. The feel of him was all-encompassing and you were grateful. Grateful that he was helping you. Shocked and a little ashamed that you could still be getting wet in front of all these sick fucks. But you were. The solid width of him was so good- stroking inside you, spreading you wide, and pulling out just enough to slam back into you, knocking you across the platform an inch at a time. 

Those stupid gloves still on your hands were making your efforts to grip on to Curtis- find a way to ground yourself was impossible and you were buffeted along with his thrusts. But you finally got your mouth near his ear. “L- listen to me. The girls in the beauty car, they- OH!” 

He gave you a particularly harsh thrust, then muttered, “Sorry.”

“They told me that you’ve won too many times. That rat bastard Wilf- Wilford told them to kill you tonight. They’re- they wanna- they want to eat you, Curtis.” You started crying, knowing the work the girls put into your makeup was all for nothing, copious amounts of mascara streaming down your face.

Curtis gritted his teeth, still fucking you vigorously. “Motherfucking Wilford. I should have known. Look, try to blend in when it starts, disappear. The garden and maintenance cars are good.”

“Wait-” you groaned again. Trying to whisper was next to impossible with the way this man was pounding you into the tile. “The g- girls say in the butcher car, there’s going to be more of them and they’ll have n- night- god, please slow down! N- night-vision scopes.” His thrusts slowed slightly and you could tell he was listening closely. “Do you remember in the mov- shit, what am I saying! Listen, can you get a flare or something really bright? You c- c- can blind them long enough to kill th- them.”

He groaned, dipping his head onto your collarbone. “Thank you. I have to come. Come with me.”

You made the mistake of turning your head and seeing all those ugly, leering masks, eyes bright and avid behind them. You could see yourself the way they did, two grunting animals, putting on a mating display for their amusement. Your tears fell faster. You were so fucking angry. These sick-

His hand moved to your chin, pulling your gaze back to him. “I’m gonna come inside you. I’m going to fill you until I leak out of you and down your legs. You’re gonna come, too. I want to be sticky from you when I go after those fucks.” You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut but he thwarted you, slipping his hand under the small of your back and lifting, sending his cock surging hard against the front of you. To your utter shock, you came with him, thighs lifting and tightening against his narrow waist and holding him tightly, feeling a slick spread of heat inside you, blossoming in your pelvis and making you so. Perfectly. Warm.

There was one moment, one good minute where you were allowed to pant together, trying to catch your breath and feeling his face against yours before Curtis sighed. "Remember. Run. Hide. When these fuckers start chewing the Kronole, it's gonna be a bloodbath." Then he was hauled up and away from you, cock slipping from inside you with an embarrassing display of your combined finish. Someone threw your dress in your face and you scrambled to put it on, trying and failing to find your underwear. Curtis was given a moment to slide his long legs into his pants before the guns prodded him away. Away from you.


	3. The Meat Locker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you attempt to be helpful.

You were shaky as hell and with a deep flush, you could feel the wet from your horribly public - but shockingly good - tryst with Curtis running down the inside of your thighs. Still, you lowered your head and tried to blend in with the crowd as he was dragged away, just like he’d told you to. 

This plan was halted instantly when you felt someone sink a fist into your hair, dragging you back. “Where do you think yer going, bitch?” It was Franco the Younger, nearly vibrating with anticipation. Pulling you back against his chest, he wrapped an arm over your throat. “We’re gonna have so much fun with you,” he whispered, making you shudder and pull your head away.

“Now, now. Is that any way to treat our guest?” The indulgently chiding voice of Wilford stopped F.t.Y. from dragging you away. “Bring her over here.” It was a hard choice. Who nauseated you more, the smug, jack-booted motherfucker dragging you by the arm, or the balding psycho who was such a fan of eugenics that he played his sick games out here in his steel-lined fiefdom? 

But Wilford was smiling down at you, which somehow made it all much worse. “Now why don’t we get to know each other a little better, dear? How is it I’ve never met you before?”

You attempted a greasy sort of smile, still trying to pull up the neckline of your dress. “We don’t run in the same circles. So what’s the plan for the rest of the night? Everyone sings Auld Lang Syne and we go to bed after the fireworks?”

The monster in his silk bathrobe started chuckling, and that cinched it. Wilford definitely made you want to vomit all over his buttery-soft loafers. “Why don’t we get settled and I’ll tell you all about it.” One liver-spotted hand clicked a remote, and three huge video screens came to life around the Ballroom of Assholes. You squinted a bit and then stifled a sob, shoving it back down as you recognized the sooty car in the camera’s frame. 

The Meat Locker.

“Really…” you couldn’t hide the disgust, the horror anymore. Fuck it, it’s not like they’re going to let you live, anyway. As far as you knew, you were on the buffet tonight. “This is what passes for high entertainment on the Snowpiercer? You watch a slaughter like it’s a game show? You think this is FUNNY?”

Franco the Younger put his meaty hand on the back of your neck, squeezing until you convulsed helplessly, gagging for breath.

Arms spread grandly over the back of his cushioned seat, Wilford laughed indulgently. “The masses must be entertained. And there must be a use for the tail-enders. So yes, there is a certain symmetry here.” You were thrown next to him with a thump, landing like a bag of flour. “Would you like a drink?” Wilford offered, “A cigarette? Get comfortable, dear. We have so much to talk about.” He eyed you over the glass of scotch as he sipped from it. “Because no one can seem to recall what car you come from here on the train.”

Sucking in a deep breath of the hashish-tainted air, you gave him the look your mom always called your “wounded deer special.” Wiping uncomfortably at your black-streaked face, you asked, “Would it be all right if I just… tidied myself up? I know I look like a mess.”

The man looked over and it was everything you could do to conceal a shudder. Wilford was no fool. He was staring at you intently, and it was everything you could manage, not just crumbling and weeping like a complete asshole. Forcing yourself to stare at his forehead, you noticed a lumpy, brownish spot that you immediately recognized as skin cancer. Unreasonably cheered by this, you kept your composure. Wilford finally waved one languid hand and one of the Beauty Car girls came scuttling over to lead you away. 

Your injured blonde girl pulled off her mask as she led you into a seat in front of a pile of cosmetics. “What did you do to yourself?” she fretted, pulling out some cleansing pads and scrubbing your face.

Two of the other girls burst into giggles. You sighed internally. Yep. Pigeons in lipstick. “You know what she did,” one of them gasped out between giggles. “Well, what the tail-ender did to her. Hell, I wouldn’t mind that dick!”

You shoved down your spurt of resentment. The two moved on to touch up their own makeup and you turned to the blonde, taking her hand and looking at the bandage. “No bleeding? No spotting?”

She shook her head solemnly. “No, thanks to you.”

“Look,” you whispered, “I need- I need a favor.” Pulling the can of hairspray off the table, you shoved it into her hand. “Can you take this to Curtis? Make an excuse that like- like Wilford wants him touched up or something before the fight?”

“Huh?” Blonde shook her head, “Why would-” 

“Please,” you were begging, you had no shame, “please I will give you medical care for the rest of your life I swear!” Reaching between your breasts that were currently squished uncomfortably into the low neckline of your ridiculous evening dress, you handed her a lighter, too.

Blonde almost dropped it, trying to back away. “Where did you GET this?” she gasped, “A lighter? Do you know how regulated these are?”

It made sense. A fire on the Snowpiercer? But there was no choice. “Please, please!” You squeezed her hand. “Your life can be better than this, I swear.”

  


Counting his steps to the Meat Locker sounded like a countdown to his execution, and Curtis tried to concentrate on what that odd girl told him. How would she know about the ambush unless she was one of Wilford’s? And if she was, why would she tell him. But he saw the desperation in her eyes, even while he was fucking her hard enough to embed the steel platform into her ass. She meant it. 

“What do you want?” One of his guards yanked on his shackles, hard. There was a girl there- she must be one of the Beauty Car girls because her lids were at half-mast, weighted down by massive false lashes.

“Mr. Wilford, he, uh…” she was shaking, and Curtis felt a moment of sympathy before realizing her life merely depended on adding highlights to the front-end bitches hair. “He wants the tail-ender cleaned up a little for the broadcast?”

The guard growled. “Are you fucking serious?”

The girl gulped. “As a heart attack.”

With an irritable sigh, the man moved over slightly, comfortable with leaving the two of them alone with multiple guns trained on Curtis.

“Hey,” Beauty Car Girl whispered, “just let me touch you up, okay?” Her hand halted as he jerked away, growling. “I have a message from your- shit- I don’t even know her name? The girl you-”

“Yeah, I get it,” he hissed, enduring her combing his hair, shorn close to his scalp to avoid lice. “What did she say?”

He felt her push a hard, cylindrical object into his hand and quickly tucked it away in his coat. “She says if you put the lighter-” and slip of the hand and a lighter - something he’d not seen since before he boarded the Train - “-to the hairspray it makes a torch?”

He remembered that. He remembered now, the riots when the climate engineering went so fucking wrong. Before the Snowpiercer was paraded out as The Beacon of Hope. How lucky he felt when they let him board the train. Shuddering despite himself, Curtis leaned into the Beauty Car Girl’s frantic combing. “Is she still alive?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “Mr. Wilford sent her back to get her cleaned up after you … you know.”

“Where is she now,” he whispered, dreading the answer when he watched her expression crumple. 

“With him. Mr. Wilford. They’re watching the screens and waiting for you.”

The noise was deafening. Party-goers were shouting and laughing drunkenly, weaving unsteadily around each other as everyone gazed greedily at the huge screens in the Party Car. Your hands were gripped together and you felt like you were going to puke, like you felt at your first surgery when you were expected to cut into a human being. Then, you’d had years of training and observation. Here? You were useless. An ornament or a fuck doll and your only prayer of ever getting the fuck off this hell ride was the man absently swinging an ax in his big, capable hands. There was no coverage from before they slid open the Meat Locker door- you had no idea if your blonde patient even got to him first.

The door slid open, and there was a wide shot of hanging, frozen slabs of meat, swinging slightly as everything did on Snowpiercer. There was a pan to the wide back of Curtis before he lifted his ax, and … it went black. There was a roar of disapproval from the crowd before the view shifted to a single pair of heat sensor goggles. 

Your lip curled, the train had resources to devote to camera-mounted goggles. But not enough to feed 25% of its population. The goggles panned right, then left and you sucked in a breath as you realized there were at least 20 men closing in on Curtis, who was circling with his ax in front of him, blue eyes staring blindly. ‘Did he not get the hairspray and lighter?’ you thought feverishly, ‘Did she not explain how to use-” The camera view fuzzed out into a searing light that made many howl and cringe before the screens went black. You put a hand over your mouth to smother your grin. You’d seen just enough of a gout of flame to know Curtis got the message.

The low tones of Wilford sent several men standing around you abruptly to the exit, and he stood up, raising his arms in a chastising way. “Such a disappointment! But no pouting here. This is the New Year celebration. The tail-ender and several of his friends-” the vile bastard looked down at you briefly, “will be spread before you at midnight to pile your plates full. Until then … a party favor or two.”

Watching numbly as girls dressed in short little dresses began passing out glass vials, you forced yourself to breathe. Curtis made it, or he didn’t. You did everything you could. A wave of homesickness rose up and nearly swamped you. You were going to die here. People were probably going to eat you like sushi. You just wanted to meet Curtis Everett. You were apparently a fucking idiot. Partygoers lifted their masks enough to ingest or snort whatever was in the vials, and you looked over at Wilford, elbows on the armrests and fingers clasped together. “So, what’s that?” you asked, “The crap they’re taking?”

A little furrow ran between his smooth brow. “It’s Kronole, of course.” He leaned in, and you really wished he hadn’t. Pale, blank blue eyes stared into yours. “How would a pretty little front-ender like you never have enjoyed a K session?”

“Uh…” the heat was getting to you, and the noise from the crowd. “It’s against my religious beliefs?”

“Oh, we can’t have that.” God, you _hated_ this fucking guy. The dry, powdery smell of Wilford clogged your nostrils as he leaned in, gesturing for something behind you. “You must join in the celebration.” 

Edging away, you angled your body as far away as you could. “Yeah, no. I have to work in the morning, you know? Gotta keep a clear head, and-”

A thick arm wrapped around your neck and you heard the excited little giggle from that asshole Franco the Younger. His other hand came around, lifting to your face with a lump of something green in his palm. You remembered Curtis whispering to _"Remember. Run. Hide. When these fuckers start chewing the Kronole, it's gonna be a bloodbath."_

Slapping a hand over your nose and mouth, you clawed at his arm, trying to get loose as the balding bastard in the silk bathrobe chuckled indulgently. F.t.Y. pulled at your index finger hard enough to break it, peeling your hand away from your face. Kicking and writhing, all you could do was to make it harder for him. He was still going to stick this shit up your nose, and-

The noise level in the room suddenly altered. Not quiet. But ... not human. There were growls, and hissing. A few choked cackles like a bird. Something low and rumbling that sent electricity up your spine with an atavistic terror that urged you to _run_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter! I know this hasn't gotten much interest on A03, but I appreciate each and every comment.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and still being around to read my crap. I’m having a difficult time writing - it used to be my refuge from the “real world,” and lately I can’t seem to keep all the awfulness out. Even though I’m struggling, I’m not giving up.


	4. The Frying Pan. The Rescue. The Shower.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which not a single soul on the Snowpiercer is correct about anything. But that doesn't stop anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't seen Snowpiercer yet - and please do! - Kronole is a drug that can put people considered useful but rebellious in stasis until needed. It is also an incredibly addictive and powerful hallucinogen. And just to make this nasty green paste super handy, it can also be used as an explosive.

After 17 years of spending every waking moment focused on the rebellion and freeing the tail-enders, this was nothing.

Curtis moved as gracefully as a dancer, performing a ballet of blood and death. He swung and sliced, shoved a body off his blade with his foot and smashed the butt end of the handle into the nose of the attacker behind him, driving the bone fragments into his brain and killing him instantly. There was a brief flash of fear and fury when two of the assailants managed to rip off their night vision goggles to see him clearly, but the next spurt of flame from his improvised blowtorch set them both on fire. They spun screaming, arms flailing wildly as they lit up the inside of the meat locker, flames reflecting off the polished steel. 

He allowed himself a moment, hands on knees and panting heavily, to recover before hearing pounding footsteps in the next car. Leaping for the door he’d initially been thrust through, he blocked and agilely dodged the bodies on the floor to get the heavy steel barricade that led to the tail end of the train open. 

“About fucking time, Everett.” Edgar was grinning at him at the head of every able-bodied tail-ender, weapons in hand. He reached out and flicked some intestine off Curtis’s arm. “You always make a mess, don’t you?

Curtis snarled at him half-heartedly. “Everything in place?”

Edgar and the others began crowding into the meat locker, staring at the blood-drenched walls. “Yeah. They’re taking the K. It won’t be long now.”

Your first clue that everything was going off the rails - a cheesy phrase to use but an appropriate one - was the noises. The second was watching the self-satisfied, heartless son of a bitch next to you stiffen. Wilford’s smooth, placid brow furrowed, and he brusquely signaled to Franco the Younger, who dropped you abruptly.

Landing with a thud, you pulled your stupid long skirts up and crawled to the edge of the platform. The people in the masks weren’t … people anymore. Some scrabbled back and forth on hands and knees - some changed enough to be walking on all fours. A couple were clinging to the walls of the Party Car like insects, and others…

There was bone and fur, gristle and feathers, there were shapes that didn’t make any sense at all and made your eyes hurt, just trying to assign shape or logic to them. Limbs sprouted oddly, viscera quivering as the front-enders turned into… Well, it was insane and so were you but they were turning into the creatures that belonged to their monstrous, masked faces. You let out something halfway between a bray and a cackle. Why should this be any more screwed up than buying a ticket to a haunted house and ending up on the motherfucking Snowpiercer, where the party crowd had decided to cut out the middleman - Wilford - and start the banquet early? Apparently, the ones who’d transformed into the smaller, weaker versions were first on the menu.

The screaming, gargling with blood and howls not recognizable as human brought Wilford over to the edge of the platform as well. For once, the smooth and self-satisfied expression you’d seen in the movie and (unfortunately) up close was gone. He was stunned, mouth open and eyes darting back and forth.

“I take it this isn’t your usual Kronofest?” you croaked, torn between enjoying his shock but kind of hoping he’d say it was normal. _Totally_ normal.

Wilford looked at you briefly and then turned away issuing commands to his visibly shaken Gestapo troops as he strode away. You knew what the chicken-livered bastard was going to do. Lock himself in his fortress with the “sacred engine.” Could Curtis and his people get through and finish off this asshole? Should you try to stop him? ‘ _Fuck…’_ you thought, trying desperately to make your unraveling sanity pay attention. _‘Should I try to kill him?"_

As it turned out, you didn’t need to worry. Wilford’s furious gaze landed on you. “Bring her,” he ordered as he moved toward the door. As you watched the first of the … whatever the fuck they were crawling over the edge, you didn’t even struggle as his KKK buddies dragged you away. You bit back a scream as one of the more agile monsters leaped an impressive 20 feet or so and latched onto the neck of the man gripping you by the hair. You twisted like a deranged eel, trying to get loose as he shrieked, blood spraying outward and on to your chest and arms. A gunshot sounded, sending your eardrums dinging and donging like the bells of Norte Dame, and the guard’s hand still gripping your hair was blown off his arm. Another splatter of blood hit your godawful dress - greenish and gelatinous because it was from the insect thing. If you’d had anything in your stomach, you’d certainly have thrown it up by now. What was left of the creature in the insect mask crumpled to the ground, and the glittering insectile covering rolled away. You reached down and grabbed the green splattered bug mask, not sure why. Franco the Younger had his slimy hands on you now and you were all making brisk time toward the front of the train. 

Shit.

Were the doors to Wilford’s fucked-up little fiefdom blast-proof? You desperately tried to remember that part of the film, and then started laughing. You were attempting to recall a movie plot, thinking it was going to save anyone. Humans were bugs and animals and weird shit that you didn’t recognize and you were still going to pretend this was going to play out like something you’d seen on HBO? 

Curtis swiped his filthy, bloody coat over his face, merely smearing the gore sprayed there down his neck. Two more cars. Just two, the Beauty Car and the Party Car, then… that bastard Wilford’s domain - the “Sacred Engine.” No one had ever been beyond the Party Car, to stand in front of those massive metal doors, but _god,_ he was ready to be the first.

Kicking their way into the next car, Curtis irritably ignored the screaming but paused for a moment as he stared at the hysterical gaggle huddling together. “Where’s-” shit, he didn’t know her name, “-the girl?” The one who’d slipped him the lighter and the hairspray spoke up. “She’s with Wilford,” she answered tremulously.

He noticed their masks were lined up on one of the makeup tables. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

They shook their heads together, like one organism. “She told us not to. She said it would kill us.”

Curtis laughed humorlessly as he hefted his ax. “She was right. Now scatter, stay hidden if you want to live.” With a kick thrust forward with all the fury and hatred he’d felt over the last 16 years, he slammed open the door where he knew the partygoers would be dead. Or wishing they were. He stumbled to a halt and was nearly knocked over by the tail-enders behind him. 

“Wh- shit, Curtis,” Edgar managed, “what the hell did you mix in with the K?”

There was a red sheen across every surface of the car, a mist in the air, and a thousand foul scents assailing the tail-enders - making souls hardened against every manner of filth and body odor - choke and gag. Of the 200 or so passengers from the front, about half were dead. Most were unrecognizable as human, as the living feasted and fought and fucked over their corpses. Curtis rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes. This wasn’t … they weren’t … what the fuck were these things? Whatever Namgoong and Yona had dosed the Kronole with did not have the intended result, which should have been death for these pathetic fuckers. But whatever these … things were, they were nothing human eyes could fully understand. Eyeing the ones clinging to the walls and upside down from the steel ceiling, he tightened his grip on the ax. 

“Kill them all.”

Your arm felt yanked out of the socket as you stumbled after Wilford’s hasty retreat, dragged along by Franco the Younger. The absence of his Aryan boyfriend worried you. “In the movie… he was going after Curtis and Namgoong, right?” You realized you’d spoken aloud when the man gripping you by the arm tightened his fingers cruelly, digging into your skin. He was hauling you along a spacious hallway toward the massive doors that you recognized. Oh, yeah you knew _those_ fuckers. The crazy chick in the mustard-colored suit gripping the AK-47 was nowhere to be seen, so maybe that was a good sign. And the kids … would the little ones be inside the engine? If Curtis couldn’t make it through, your last act would be to kill that motherfucker Wilford if you had the slightest chance. And so you allowed yourself to be yanked through the doors, opened wide like the maw of the sacred engine, eagerly awaiting its meal.

“Now then. Just who are you, darling?” Wilford’s pale eyes were blank, like a snake’s. He looked briefly at Franco the Nazi Asshole Younger and nodded. And in the next moment, it felt like he’d set fire to your arm. You screamed, shocked and terrified at the sudden agony and because oh god lord jesus it felt like your arm had been torn from the socket. You could hear the wet snap as the cartilage dislodged from the bone and you screamed even higher, a pitch that could surely shatter glass. You were kneeling on the polished, intricately engraved flooring with the arm in question lifted high above you and at the unnatural angle causing your suffering. The polished shoes of the conductor of this fucked-up joyride were circling you as you howled and writhed. “You are the only variable - the only unrecognizable piece of the puzzle -” he hissed, “that does not fit into my perfectly preserved microcosm. So it stands to reason that your presence here played a much more destructive role than it should.”

A steel-toed boot nailed your ribs on the right side, which twisted your arm again. “Answer him, cunt.”

Laughing because the only other option was wailing, you managed, “I just wanted to go through the haunted house,” you laughed harder at Wilford’s perplexed expression. “I mean, I knew the Snowpiercer room was gonna be the shit. But this is a much more im- im- im- ersive experience than I- I- planned.” It was then that your gaze dropped to your other hand, which was still gripping that creepy mask. With a swing that would make your high school tennis coach proud, the insect facade went up and onto F.t.Y.’s face. 

It shouldn’t have worked. You didn’t think he’d snorted any of the Kronole but maybe there was some left inside the mask, because as soon as the metal met his skin, his grip on you was gone and both hands were up, trying to tear it from his face. Forcing yourself to your feet and leaning against the wall, you watched with a sick sense of accomplishment as the Nazi bastard’s arms began pinwheeling, his body spinning in a blur and beginning to elongate but kind of shrink too, all at the same time. No one came to his aid, because you realized that it was only you and the two men inside the majestic front car. The rest of the guard must be outside the doors. So, cradling your torn arm close to your side, you grabbed the first thing at hand - a frying pan - and you bashed in the carapace of the insect thing that used to be Franco the Younger, crushing it’s unnaturally huge eyes into its skull, hammering stick-like legs from the thorax and laughing like a fucking lunatic, because let’s face it- you were one at this point.

Finally straightening, panting with a feeling of great accomplishment, you found Wilford staring at you with a well-bred distaste, as if he could not have imagined such a disgusting thing could have ever entered his sanctum. You could dimly hear gunfire from outside the massive room and hoped the weapons were in the tail-ender's hands.

“To answer your question,” you continued as if you’d not just bashed in the brains of a five-foot-tall insect, “I’m from the past, or an alternate universe, or you’re a super painful figment of my imagination or hell … maybe I’m your figment. Who fucking knows? What I do know-” you staggered closer, still holding up the dripping frying pan, “-wait, gross. Is this the pan you were cooking the steak in at the end of the mo- Oh, wait. That wasn’t steak, huh? That was flesh? You _creepy_ fuck! What I do know is that you have children under this floor. And I’m getting every one of them out. And if I have to do it over your dead body, then that’s a bonus.”

To his credit, the monstrous conductor of the Snowpiercer didn’t seem at all alarmed by your declaration, though one brow did rise when you spoke about the children. Granted, you didn’t look like much of a threat. Your left arm was hanging awkwardly, cradled by your right. You were pretty sure you were thoroughly coated in that insect goo. But you had just killed whatever the hell Franco the Younger had turned into, so that was something. 

The sounds of conflict behind the huge doors were getting louder, and you were certain that was gunfire. Hearing Curtis shout was surely just wishful thinking, though. The sudden bark of Wilford’s laughter startled you enough into almost dropping the frying pan, and you tightened your grip as you looked around for a more useful weapon. “You won’t live long enough for all your grand plans,” he said, still sounding so condescending, so certain of himself. He was holding a gun in one hand, loosely, not really aiming anywhere but held like he knew how to use it. 

“You first,” you offered pleasantly, then jumped a little as something heavy slammed into the doors. But Wilford glanced over too, and you threw the frying pan as hard as you could. It was a good one, high-quality and quite heavy. You were off on your aim because half your body was still in agony, but the pan nailed his arm holding the gun and it flew across the room, skidding to a stop against a white storage area. You thanked your lucky stars it hadn’t gone off and dived for it at the same moment Wilford did. The nasty old bastard could definitely move quickly when he had to, and you screamed again as he punched you in your broken shoulder, reaching for the gun. You gritted your teeth, bringing up your knee to nail him in the kidneys -’He’ll be peeing blood for a week!’ - you thought spitefully, and arched your back, desperately trying to grab the weapon.

However, your little battle over the gun was abruptly cut short when a blast shook the spacious compartment, rattling floor panels and sending glassware, books, and bric a brac off the shelves and you sliding across the slick surface in one direction and Wilford in the other. Curtis came striding through the rubble and smoke like a bloody, avenging angel and you gasped out, “Gun! He’s got-” before you broke off, coughing uncontrollably. The shouting and the sound of another bullet or two faded away as you gagged and heaved for oxygen. Looking at the fingers of your good hand, you realized they were digging into a groove in the floor panel. Hoisting yourself to your hip, you pulled the piece of metal up and froze.

Oh, no. Not this part. This part shouldn’t be real.

But, it was. A tiny child looked up at you, pupils hugely dilated, and a blank expression on his face. His dark scalp was shorn and he wore a thin pair of underwear. “Oh, sweetie…” you choked for a minute before your Doctor Voice kicked in. “Come on, darling. It’s time to come out now.” Everything else disappeared - the smoke, the shouting and cursing - and you stared into the pitch black of his sightless gaze. _His name what was his name it’s-_ “Timmy? You can come out. You’re all done.” You used the tone you’d used on countless children to help them accept an injection, to set a bone, to insert an IV, and it worked. His little fingers left the complex systems of gears and cogs he was manipulating and raised to you.

“DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE YOUR POST! I WILL KILL EVERYONE YOU LOVE!”

 _Motherfucking Wilford!_ Timmy froze and began shrinking back into his space. Frantically trying to track the gears and levers, you could see a massive one rolling it’s way toward him. Ohgodohgodohgod this was the one that took off Curtis’s arm - or it could kill Timmy because he was halfway in and halfway out. Sliding forward with a nauseating squish from the slime coating you, you ended up headfirst into the space, reaching for the cringing little boy. "Timmy," you spoke firmly, confidently. "Give me your hand. Right now." You could hear some garbled noises behind you and assumed someone was gagging that fucking conductor from hell. Your eyes closed briefly in gratitude at the first touch of his fingers and you gripped his hand and wrist firmly, beginning to pull, one eye on that goddamn murderous metal disc rotating closer and closer to you both. Unfortunately, your efforts to pull him free made you slide in further, and now you’d be the one decapitated. But you couldn’t let go of Timmy, you couldn’t you just-

Two huge hands landed on your hips and yanked them hard enough to dislocate your legs. It was bizarrely reminiscent of birth- with a squelching sound, the child flew loose from his metal prison and nearly went over your head, which slid from the compartment just a hair's breadth from the gleaming steel guillotine rotating smoothly into the space that your skull just occupied. You rolled over, scooping up the trembling child in your arm and holding him against you. You had a vivid image of his mother Tanya dying on the journey through the cars, and you kissed the top of his poor, bare little scalp, eyes wet. “It’ll be okay,” you whispered, “I promise, it will be.”

Curtis curled over you both, long arms steadying you for a moment. His rough voice, softer now speaking into your ear. “Your arm looks like shit.”

Laughing again, a little in relief but still probably because you were indeed crazy as fuck, you nodded, cheek against the bloody floor. “Yeah, you should see the other guy.” You laughed harder at his expression and then tried to pull yourself together. 

The monstrous conductor of the Snowpiercer refused to speak, but the fact that he’d resumed his usual smug, superior expression - even whilst tied up very, very tightly - concerned you, but you focused on finding the other compartment that you was sure was there, holding another child of the tail-enders. Timmy’s eyes were still blank, but one of the women had draped him with a blanket from Wilford’s palatial bed and was speaking to him softly. Curtis found the loose metal plate first, and he hauled it open to find Andy. This time, at least, his father was alive and he raced to hold him - sobbing - with his remaining arm.

Curtis strode over to Wilford, who was still looking superior and somehow amused. "You can't hurt me, son," his deep, senatorial tone was fucking infuriating to hear. "You would kill everyone on this train - all life on the planet = just for revenge?" 

Leaning closer, Curtis spat in his face, enjoying the man's look of shock. "We don't need you. You've been replaced, old man. And we're going to execute you and stream it on every monitor on this shit train. Like the dog you are. Like you killed Gillam. Another traitor."

Your adrenaline suddenly plunged, and you sat abruptly on the floor, beginning to shake in your slimy, ridiculous evening gown. The excruciating agony from your broken, torn arm immediately made itself known, angrily clamoring for your attention again. It took Curtis and the others a minute to notice. After speaking softly to Namgoong, he turned to you and squatted down, resting his forearms on his knees. “Want some help with that arm?” 

“Yeah,” you agreed wearily, “it’s dislocated. If you can help me up, I’ll reset it against the door.” 

Ignoring you, Curtis pressed your head to his chest before putting one filthy hand on your shoulder and the other on your back and abruptly pushed up, then in. You would have liked to have endured it stoically, but you screamed again at the electrical blue-white flash of light behind your closed eyelids and a corresponding wave of agony up your arm. Resting your forehead on his collarbone, you wept silently for a minute as he fashioned a sling for you.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

There was a palatial bath and shower in Wilford’s atrium, but you’d both rather live in your own filth forever than touch anything of that bastard’s, so you staggered back to the beauty car. The girls had taken Curtis’s warning to hide seriously, so the car was empty save the two of you and a few others spared from guarding Wilford. 

Pulling you back into the shower you’d been in before, Curtis carefully removed the vile gown and a remaining glove that you didn’t even realize you were still wearing. This time, the water was warm. “Oooooo…” you sighed blissfully, “that’s so nice.” Opening one eye, you watched him carefully lather his hands with the soap, then smooth them down your back.

“I never got clean here without feeling guilty about everyone in the back,” Curtis said abruptly. “Parents would … they’d bring their kids to smell me. They just wanted them to know what it could look like to be clean.”

Turning you carefully to lean your back against the shower, he built a lather in his hands again. “You literally killed for those showers, Curtis.” You watched his brows draw together, but he didn’t argue as he ran his rough, soapy palms down your front, touching your breasts gently as he went to his knees, continuing his path and smiling at your little moan as the filth, blood, and bug goo sheeted off your skin. "Wait," you rubbed your face, trying to stir up a few brain cells into activity. "What about that fucker Wilford? What about the train? What happens now?" He was busy cleaning one foot, and then the other, dark head bent over his task.

When he looked up at you, you were struck again at his angry, angular beauty. But this time his eyes were a clear blue, like the sky no longer visible in the blanket of white outside. “One of the discoveries we did have over the last sixteen years,” he said, “was one of the original engineers when Snowpiercer was launched. Wilford killed them, one by one when they couldn’t fix the breaking parts in the Sacre- fuck that, in the engine, but he managed to hide. He’s the one who told us where to leave messages, front-enders who might be sympathetic.” Curtis rose to tower over you, and his grin was savage. “He’s up front familiarizing himself with the controls. Namgoong thinks there’s at least five spots within a few days where we can stop the train safely. Namgoong says the freeze is-”

“-Is over,” you agreed absently, still absorbed in the feel of his touch gliding over your wet skin. “The world is thawing.” Opening one eye when his hands stopped, you regretted it when you found his sharp gaze on your bruised face.

“So now it’s your turn to talk,” Curtis said coldly, beginning to clean himself. “Who are you? Why did you help us?”

You chuckled absently, pushing back your wet hair. “You- shit. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Curtis. You’ll think I’m insane. I don’t even know what happens now.” Your neck was starting to hurt, leaning back far enough to see his face.

“Go on.” 

You took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. “Okay. I’ll tell you the truth. And you will not, I assure you, believe me. I bought a ticket to a celebrity haunted house. You were supposed to be there - the actor that plays you, anyway - I was late getting off my shift at the hospital, and I was the last person in line. I stepped into the room and when the door shut, I was here, instead.”

Looking up, you smothered a giggle that you were certain would make you sound even crazier. “You, this-” you gestured loosely, “this is all fiction. But … some of the things I expected to happen, like those poor children in the floor? They happened. But some stuff, god, those front end fuckers eating human flesh? That’s different.” Curtis was leaning against the shower wall, listening intently with a frown. “Wilford didn’t know where I was from, you didn’t- because I’m not from here.” 

He was silent as he put some nice, rosemary-scented shampoo in your hair. It was the first thing on this hellride that didn’t smell vile and artificial. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Curtis finally said, intent on rinsing your hair. “Too many things didn’t … I was so certain. Gilliam? You know about him?”

“I’m sorry,” you nodded.

“And the things in the party car. Those were the rich bastards from the front. How did they… I… I don’t know everything. I was so certain.” He cupped your face with his hands, the gentleness of the action surprising you. “So what happens in your ending?”

You shuddered, head to toe. Misunderstanding, he turned the water hotter for you. “Let’s make our own ending,” you said. “Fuck it. No one tells us what to do.”

Curtis chuckled, the sound a little rusty, like it hadn’t been used often, but his smile was so beautiful. “Fuck it.” And then his mouth was on yours and you were nearly boneless with relief. Turning you so your back was against the tiled shower wall, he secured you there before sliding down to kneel at your feet again. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he said, putting one of your legs over his broad shoulder, thumbs opening your lower lips, stroking along them. “I kept smelling my fingers, remembering the taste of you, so clean. Like flowers. I’d forgotten what they really smelled like. Until you.” Then his mouth was on you, his whiskers scratching softly along your thighs, his tongue tracing your folds, and your other leg was shaking so he threw that one over his other shoulder, easily balancing you and then… He slurped, oh, god, he slurped on you like a meal, devouring your pussy like it was a delicacy, with greed and little, pleased sounds that made you shiver and get wetter still. Then his wrist twisted and two fingers slid into you, rough pads of his fingers stroking inside you, exploring and pressing and stretching you. 

“This time,” Curtis reluctantly pulled off you, panting a little, “I’m going to make sure you’re ready so it doesn’t hurt. Because I’m going to stay inside you for a long, long time. I’m going to bury my cock in you because you are on _fire_ inside…” He groaned against your clitoris before sucking it into his mouth and this time you came hard, arching your pelvis and moaning, almost crying with the relief of something being done to you that was not horrible and sick. The warm water pattered like rain down your breasts and into Curtis’s hair. He pulled back to look up at you, full lips shining and beard wet. He deliberately licked his lips and chuckled at your cringe. Then sliding back up, slowly, pressing each hard, sculpted inch of himself against you, hands still gripping your thighs. 

You wanted to pull his head to you to kiss him, you wanted to grab that giant cock currently pulsing against your inner thigh. But with only one good hand left, you chose the latter, reaching for him, squeezing and enjoying his groan. “I didn’t get to look at you. You know. Before.” You hummed, running your fingers along his shaft, appreciating the weight and hardness of him, sliding a fingertip over his silky head and thoughtfully bringing it to your mouth. “You taste good too,” you sighed appreciatively. You would have said more, but he groaned, bent his knees slightly and thrust into you, making you yelp and grip his lean hips, heels digging into his sculpted ass and feeling the flex and roll of the muscle there. 

“So fucking hot,” Curtis groaned, “god, that’s good. You make me warm again. I haven’t been warm for one fucking moment since I boarded this train sixteen years ago.” His hips slammed into you, pushing you back against the tile and making your breath hitch. While it didn’t hurt as much, you suspected every time with this man would feel like this - stretched wide, walls pulled tight against his thickness, feeling every vein and ridge of him thrusting through you. 

Putting a hand over your abdomen, you groaned. “I can feel you move in me, that’s- oh-!”

Bracing his feet, Curtis cupped your ass in those giant hands of his and began bouncing you up and down on him, gaze trained down on the sight of his slick shaft pushing in and out of you. “Beautiful,” he said hoarsely, “so soft. I’m going to be inside of you every second we can. I’m going to fuck you, I’m going to balance you on my cock and make you keep me warm for hours. And one day-” his hips were moving impossibly fast and your back was getting hotter from the friction against the tile, “-I’m going to fuck a baby into you. Now that the kids are safe. Now that no one can hurt them I’m going to make one with you.”

Struggling through the accumulated poverty of medical school and your residency, you’d never had time to date. Having children had never even crossed your mind.

Making a guttural sound of approval, Curtis said, “You just squeezed on me like a fist. You like that, don’t you? I’m going to love seeing you round, and soft. I’ve never felt that. Not as long as I can remember. You’re mine, aren’t you? Wherever the fuck you’re from, you’re mine now.”

You buried your face in the warm space between his neck and shoulder, sucking on his wet skin, loving the texture of it. Shrieking when he bounced you especially hard, you gasped, “Yes, I’m yours, Curtis. I don’t know what the hell is happening but I can be yours.”

His thrusts were still harsh inside you but he nudged you with his chin, making you look at him. “I could never take care of anyone before. I couldn’t keep them safe. I’m gonna keep you safe. Fuck…” his teeth clenched and his cock began hitting deeper, slower inside you, hips lazily twisting and making him rub against all kinds of soft, sensitive places inside you. He felt heavier, thicker now and you knew he was close. Pinning you harder against the shower, Curtis arched his hips to push along the front of you, the hairy base of his pelvis rubbing insistently, roughly against your clitoris and when he exploded inside you, you did, too. Wet, and warm, and safe. Fused together and shivering a bit. Leaning in to kiss you, Curtis cocked his head. “What’s your name?”

Bursting into laughter, you told him, and you both laughed together, sensitive parts rubbing against each other until you felt him harden inside you again.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for finishing the story! I'm sorry it's taken so long, but hopefully having finished something will give me the ability to finish all these other bits and pieces floating around Tumblr and A03.


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